<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>I officially have over seventy stories planned. This is not any of them. by FoundFandomFamilies</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25914916">I officially have over seventy stories planned. This is not any of them.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoundFandomFamilies/pseuds/FoundFandomFamilies'>FoundFandomFamilies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Add tags as I go along baby, Gen, Listen MCC is in six hours you can’t expect me to be coherent just shshshshs, NO EDITING WE WRITE AT MIDNIGHT AND CRY LIKE M E N</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:01:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25914916</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoundFandomFamilies/pseuds/FoundFandomFamilies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, how’s about this. Never have I ever, first to get down to no fingers admits they lost.”</p><p>“Rigged.”</p><p>“Just-just do it!” </p><p>“Okay, fine. Never have I ever been an egotisical repressed green bastard who can’t admit defeat.“</p><p>“...”</p><p>“Put your finger down Dream.”</p><p>“You hang out with the rat too much.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>151</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I officially have over seventy stories planned. This is not any of them.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Beneath several meters of dirt, and quite a lot of corn, is a bunker. </p><p> </p><p>A bunker that had presently been frequently occupied by three, that eventually dwindled to one, and is now housing two. One made had been there when the bunker was created. </p><p> </p><p>The other one is hesitantly walking down dusty stairs, and wondering if he’d made the right choice. </p><p> </p><p>“You know this is a recipe for disaster, right?” He speaks up, never one to hide his opinions. The other laughs, never one to shy away from theatrics. The first man groans.</p><p> </p><p>“My dear friend, we already have a meal of a disaster on our hands,” a table is cleared with a sweeping motion, and a drink cabinet is opened in a similar exaggerated fashion. “This is merely a plan for a balancing side dish.”</p><p> </p><p>A cork is popped open, and a drink is poured “Champagne?”</p><p> </p><p>A glass filled with a deep purple liquid is offered. The suited man takes it with a quirk of his eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>The liquid swirls around, at an inspecting golden eye level.  “So what the fuck is this actually?” </p><p> </p><p>“Ribena.” The lighter haired scientist chuckles, “used to be anyways. Helps with the top secret vibes though doesn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Helps reaffirm my first assessment of you that’s for sure,” the other grumbles, taking a hesitant sip and immediately cringing from the sickly sweet tang.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah? What was that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Batshit insane.” The man gags, placing the offensive drink on the table. “Blah. You seriously don’t have alcohol?” </p><p> </p><p>“Uh, not have, had. Past tense,” the chuckle is nervous this time, “definitely not anymore. It’ll tell you that itself now actually.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well. I ain’t fucking doing this sober.”</p><p> </p><p>Light hearted eyes turn avoidant, as the newcomer pulls out a labelled flask, and downs half in a quick motion. Now tense hands grip on a mug, and the cold refreshment in it starts to heat up. Marshmallows are dropped in, and conversation starts up again.</p><p> </p><p>“Look at us then huh?” What a poor attempt to break the ice... “Never thought I’d see the day I’d finally get you in here.”</p><p> </p><p>“I believe the phrase used most commonly is ‘wish it were under better circumstances’. But I’ll be real with you, I wouldn’t even want to fucking be here on the best day of my life.” </p><p> </p><p>A sigh mixes with a resigned chuckle, and the now probably scaling drink is hurriedly placed. “Let's just get this over with then.” </p><p> </p><p>It’s a tone looking for some form of reassurance, mostly likely without realising it. It’s a tone that’s going to be severely disappointed regardless, because the source of comforts mood worsens as soon as a mess of files and papers are slapped directly in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>“...really at my last resort then huh.” He grumbles, picking up a file at random.</p><p> </p><p>It’s dropped, as the holder hadn’t been expecting to be stared back at. </p><p> </p><p>“JESUS FUCKING-what kind of creepy mother fucker-“</p><p> </p><p>There's only a little sympathy in the amused stare he gets. “Ah, so you’re not a mask guy either?” The bastard asks, picking up the discarded file. “Yeaaah, haunt your worst dreams this guy will.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought we were here to look at our fucking options, not creepy pastas asshole.”</p><p> </p><p>The file is thrown unceremoniously back at his face.</p><p> </p><p>“You wanna read about them before you spit on me?”</p><p> </p><p>“You and I both know I will do that anyways,” is just spat back, but the order to read is followed. The silence goes from unimpressed, to begrudgingly impressed, with a dash of slightly terrified.</p><p> </p><p>The observer chuckles when he doesn’t get continued running commentary.</p><p> </p><p>“They say eyes are a window to the soul, but I’m gonna be real with you Schlatt, I think I’d just rather close the blinds on this guy.”</p><p> </p><p>The joke goes under appreciated. ‘Schlatt’ has just skipped ahead.</p><p> </p><p>“So, what, they’re already a team huh? Why don’t we bring these guys in then, and not waste our damn time with,” the impatient man trails off, eyes trailing with him over to the stacks upon stacks of files piled up waiting, “god damn you need a girlfriend.” He finishes dryly, and annoyance and embarrassment is instantly caused.</p><p> </p><p>“Shove off. Look, we can’t do that, because I don’t know where on earth they are. If, on earth even is where they are anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Eyes blink. Hands are thrown up. “Wh-then why fucking bring them up at all!”</p><p> </p><p>“...Schlatt when I agreed to do this you promised me you’d be an engaged audience, can you let me continue?”</p><p> </p><p>“An engaged audience doesn’t have to be a happy audience…”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, don’t I know it. I ever tell you about that show I did back in 19-“</p><p> </p><p>“...”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, right, impending doom, got cha, shutting up.”</p><p> </p><p>More files are sorted through. Flashes of blue, black, lines and lines of text and chicken scratch, images of teeth, fur, and blades are processed, and eventually placed aside. Drinks rotate, but can never once be confidently labeled ‘drinkable’, but the ability to care is being lost as well. Hours have passed. Or maybe they haven’t.</p><p> </p><p>Who cares, hey?</p><p> </p><p>“Woah woah hey wait, I know that asshole,” a scarred finger is jabbed down on the blurry photo attached by paper clip, “we were field agents together, worked on the water risings and a handful of other jobs as a duo. The fucks he got to do with any of this, he went MIA!”</p><p> </p><p>“Exactly, he went missing~!” Exaggerated Jazz hands are used to poor reception. There's a cringe. “Ah, sorry, that’s probably, actually, one of those...things that’s sour in your past huh?”</p><p> </p><p>A scathing look is sent. “I’ve moved on. So get a move on.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not so much who <em> he </em> is,” the scolded man awkwardly explains, “it's who he is something’s seen with who is who we want to know, is. Who we want- <em> just read.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“...Technoblade.” A finally shaking voice breaths out, while the other swallows.</p><p> </p><p>“The blood god.” Is added unnecessarily.</p><p> </p><p>“Angel of death.” The other deadpans morbidly, eyes drawn to scarlet stained fathers. </p><p> </p><p>“Pretty fucked up pig with wings.” Concludes it all, followed by a curious, desperate to move on laugh, “You had an encounter with him once, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Back at the Gala, yeah. There's a reason I don’t do Gala jobs anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“And here I thought it was just because you knew I look better in a dress than you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Technoblade is <em> cracked </em>,” the hand moves away to point, “what we’d be doing by trying to bring him in is just giving ourselves more problems.”</p><p> </p><p>“Orrrrr, giving our problems more problems!”</p><p> </p><p>“It’d be both you dumb shit! God, okay, what else have you got…swear to fuck if I see one more pun-“</p><p> </p><p>A throat suddenly goes dry, and is left second guessing the refusal to a more refreshing drink.</p><p> </p><p>“...Charlie this is a photo of a child.”</p><p> </p><p>The forehead crease enough is proof, the opinion he’s thinking is shared. <em>So why the hell-</em></p><p> </p><p>“He’s a last resort. The file under him is too. Schlatt I don’t like the idea as much as you do but, well, read it.”</p><p> </p><p>Eyes barely have to flicker over the practised lines of info, before the file is slammed down.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not using a glass cannon in the first wave of war Charlie.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, look man, I just gather the information. We weren’t exactly old ourselves…”</p><p> </p><p>“That was different! It was…”</p><p> </p><p>Justified? Okay?</p><p> </p><p>The white gripped hands on the table show both know it was neither.</p><p> </p><p>A growing headache has gotten tired of being ignored. Hands are moved up to massage the agonised forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“I think that’s enough for tonight. Give me copies of them all, I’ll read them once I’ve checked in again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Leaving so soon?” The answer is joking. The barely concealed hurt is not.</p><p> </p><p>It’s hurt he has to ignore. It burns old wounds with how easy it is too as well.</p><p> </p><p>“You know the drill.” Empty words repeat. A quote still said despite passing time. Shoulders slump like they always do.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah well… cheers, Schlatt,” Charlie finally says, forcing <em>another</em> glass, this time filled with something green, back into Schlatt protesting hands, “to our friends going batshit, and hiring new ones to take them down.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve been alone for too long bud,” the golden eyed one simply bites, and he gets an agreeable, defeated, ‘fair enough’ shrug in return. </p><p> </p><p>The taste is somehow worse every time.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Don’t ask me what this is I don’t knoooow I do not k n o w what this i s but hopefully I’m still gonna write it but I don’t k n o w-</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>